


Functions

by cassandor



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Backstory, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Don’t copy to another site, Gen, POV Cassian Andor, Pre-Canon, author musings as told by a droid, featuring questionable programming language I'm too old to have learned in school
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-03-09 18:33:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18922705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandor/pseuds/cassandor
Summary: "You hoped it would work.""Incorrect. To put it in organic terms, I did not think it would hurt to try."Cassian Andor happens upon a pile of scrap -and sees something worth saving.





	1. print('a long time ago')

Many stories arise from the age of the rebellion. Stories tucked safely away from sanitizing Imperial touches, brought to light only by determined younglings and the hopes of the future.

Stories of victory, of loss, of luck and of hope.

Stories supplemented by scars borne proudly - proven by scars hidden from sight.

The droids are often forgotten.

They are accessories, at best. Whenever the heroes have a chance they'll insist that nothing wouldn't have been possible without their friends, organic or otherwise. Every point of view matters, and a knee-height astromech sees what most beings miss. 

Yet eyes still glaze over the golden protocol droid watching over her shoulder, and hardly anyone spares a glance at the blue R2 unit whirring around his feet.

Droids have one function: receiving orders and fulfilling them, at once an inconvenience and a necessity.

The rebels are different, in that way.

There's something that unites the pilots who'd hurtled into the vast nothingness of space with only an aging astromech for company. It unites every veteran who fights battles of the mind with inorganic allies at their heels.

They remember the droids.

* * *

It's hard to revere those who don't want to be remembered.

Spies, for example. Assassins. Saboteurs.

Sanitary droids in their own, twisted way. Cleaning up a galaxy, doing the dirty work most beings balk at. Taking orders nobody ever wants to receive. Sticking to the shadows, they worked to exist beyond notice. They preferred to be forgotten, anyways. Acknowledgement was never a good thing.

These beings only existed in the moment they're given an order, and the moment that order is completed.

Droids are their brethren - they are a tool, who's only purpose is to find the most efficient path to an objective, feelings and history unimportant to the equation. Orders are fed in, actions are spat out with unnerving accuracy and detachment.

Then a boy barely fitting into the label of teenagehood finds himself face-to-faceplate with bright eyes and dull durasteel. Its skull-like features serve only one purpose: bringing security to the glorious Empire.

It doesn't really matter, how this story begins. Not to the galaxy, not even to those involved.

The boy might just come across a mangled casing in a warehouse with the roof blown off, a secret haven tucked away from the footsteps that seek him out, somewhere safe to wait for extraction. The droid might have been claimed by fire both explosive and patient, an earlier attack shearing away its factory-shine, and rust built over months of rain. He studies the dents and scratches dusting its surface to distract himself from his own plummet towards the same, functionless state.

The boy might've ran into the security droid, slipping out of its durasteel grasp to clamber over the blue-gray chassis, swinging precariously as he disables it well placed shots to a control panel. The droid might still be smoking, dying sparks sizzling as they cascade over its frame, by the time the boy kneels to inspect the damage and wonder. 

It doesn't really matter, how this story begins. What matters is this:

Cassian Andor happens upon a pile of scrap -

and sees something worth saving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midway through writing I remembered an art piece on Tumblr that framed the Star Wars saga as being beamed down to us by a certain astromech droid, so I'd like to think the preface to this tale is also told in that manner.


	2. probability(risk, impact)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also for @thefulcrumcaptain Cassian Week: "Possibility"

Rain smacks into thin durasteel, keeping time with its steady drumbeat. Once, long ago, these durasteel sheets were immaculate, smooth with a factory sheen. But time has carved slight impressions for rain to gather and socialize in the few seconds before the pools grow too large and spill over the edge. Sheets of rain caress the rusting walls of the warehouse, rushing towards the spaces between loose gravel and ruined topsoil that hold up the abandoned industrial district, accompanying their counterparts falling directly from the thick black skies. Rogue streams of water break free from this monotony, falling to the call of the caved-in part of the roof. Here, they pass through the breaches, cutting through musty, humid air. They land with splashes on slick duracrete floors, the dry spots quickly losing the battle to spreading puddles. Some cling onto the walls, desperate, and meet their ends on top of long-forgotten storage containers.

The warehouse has seen this drama play out before, its every surface touched in some way by mold or rust no longer seen on Core planets. Today, though, it watches a brand new scene.

Amidst the essence of decay and destruction, a boy kneels beside a carcass.

Specifically, the carcass of a droid.

(In this tale, it is not important how or when the droid attained this state - it rarely is. What matters now is that the droid is good as dead, and the only being to give it a second glance is a teenage Human with a shock of soft brown hair and softer, browner eyes.)

Biting his lip, the boy rises to his feet. His torn skin stings. In response, his hand drifts to his side. The pain is manageable, dulled somewhat by the freshly applied bacta patch he'd salvaged from an old medkit. He takes in a slow breath and closes his eyes. Focuses inward, then outward. Just like he'd been taught, so long ago when angry stars fell out of snowy skies. Just as he does every time he looks through his rifle's scope.

Neither shells nor rifles are with him now, just his dead blaster and at least several hours of comm interference in the form of thick cloud cover. When he opens his eyes his face is turned towards the crack in the roof above him, a parting in a curtain, offering a glimpse to the sky, barely discernible from the thick rainfall. The blood flowing out of him is far slower in pace, thankfully, but the injury has dashed any possibility of taking a nap until the ship arrives.

Not like he could ever sleep on a mission.

With a huff, he grasps each of the droid's arms and lugs it towards the nearest wall. By the time he's propped it up, he's breathless. The droid appears to be just short of twice his height but probably weighs thrice as much. Once he's ensured the droid won't fall over, he tightens the knot of his jacket over the wound lancing across his side.

All he has to do is outlast this storm - stay awake and _alive_ until extraction.

Company would be a nice distraction, but he hasn't expected such a luxury even longer than he's stopped expecting unaided sleep. The only company he's had on this mission is the splashes of troopers' feet marching through puddles and muck. He hasn't heard them since he slipped into the warehouse.

With a sigh, the boy pushes himself up onto an old storage container, putting himself at eye level with the droid and keeping his feet dry. The droid's photoreceptors remain dark, but it's skull-like face almost seems to stare back, even in it's current state of being slumped against the side of a grimy old container. The boy examines its skeletal structure, takes in its blueish-black sheen, and frowns at the gear-like emblem painted on its shoulders.

"A security droid," the boy says to nobody in particular, the light curiosity in his voice weighted by exhaustion. A KX series, issued after the Senate had banned battle droids and any other automaton with the capacity to kill organics. Droids didn't have the capacity for second thought. They are bound to their programming and whatever function it dictates. For this particular droid, it was to neutralize intruders - a loose term when the Empire used it - through whatever means necessary.

The boy presses his lips together and leans forward, hands on his knees. The idea strikes him like lightning. A droid with combat capabilities like these would be incredibly useful. Such a droid, programmed to protect him - _no_ , not just him, more important things, like information, or high-level rebel sympathizers. _Such_ a droid would be invaluable to the rebel cause. The possibilities are endless.

The boy catches his blurred reflection in the sheen of the droid's chassis. He could fix this. It's a complicated problem - set of problems, technically - but for a boy who once hoped to free the galaxy with nothing to his name except a mouthful of languages and two calloused hands, it isn't impossible.

"He's disciplined and skilled," a voice says in his memories, the speaker unaware of the listening ears. "He'd be able to slip by unnoticed, fit in at the Imperial Academy with a face like that. Such a boy would be invaluable to the rebel cause. The possibilities are endless."

With voices whispering in his head, a tool begins to craft another.

* * *

A few hours later, Cassian steps back and evaluates his work. Restricted by what the old warehouse could provide, he's managed hook up an old battery to recharge the droid while he worked on patching up its internal systems. Stacked on one of the many crates beside him are the droid's surprisingly functional limbs, disconnected in preparation for his next move.

He reaches for the back of the droid's head and turns on the power. Cassian doesn't need much - just a flicker of hope.

First attempt: the droid remains a hunk of lifeless metal. Cassian sighs, rubs his hands, and hunts in a wire forest for misplaced connections.

Second attempt: when Cassian presses his hand against the droid's chestplate, he's delighted to feel its inner workings thrumming with energy. A heartbeat of sorts, reassuring under his cold fingertips.

Third attempt: the droid's vocabulator spits out garbled bursts of noise. Oddly, its attempts to communicate with the outside world remind Cassian of the rain dripping onto durasteel. Blip. Blip. Blip.

Fourth attempt: the droid's photoreceptors flicker on. An intermittent blue-white light spills from the frame, cutting through the dim greyness of his surroundings. Holding his breath, Cassian leans closer into the photoreceptors. They dilate, adjusting in brightness.

Fifth attempt: the droid's head turns, following Cassian's movement. With a burst of static, the nonsense emitted by its vocabulator becomes more defined. A warbled tongue, caught between binary and Basic. It takes a clean knock to the droid's head before its voice coalesces into something comprehensible:

"THREAT LEVEL: MEDIUM. You-you are t-trespassing on Imperial property. You will be detained. D-do not resist. Identify yourself. You are trespassing on Imperial property. You will be detained. Do not resist. I-IDENTIFY YOURSELF. YOU ARE BEING DETAINED."

Cassian startles at the droid's voice. A sharp contrast to the softer tones of protocol droids and the mechanic speech of most others, it's unusually blunt and eerily Human-like. A perfect emulation of high-class Core Basic and the voices Cassian despises the most. He holds back a shudder and reaches to deactivate the droid.

The droid's photoreceptors shrink to red pinpricks and it's head swivels wildly. "THREAT LEVEL: HIGH. Do not resist. You will be terminated. DO NOT RESIST. You will be terminated." Loud whirring fills the jerky silence between words, sounds echoing in the cramped quarters. The droid's joints spin. If it still had arms, Cassian would be dead.

Cursing under his breath, Cassian's fumbles for the kill switch at the base of its head, careful not to stick his fingers in its churning mechanisms.

"You-you will be terminated. Do not resist. Ter-terminated. KILL! KILL! KI-"

The droid's voice fizzles out, leaving Cassian alone in the darkness. He curses again, clamping a hand over his side, then begins to think. In the background, rain drips steadily into the warehouse, spilling out under the half-shut blast doors he'd used to sneak in unnoticed. Cassian pulls the droid away from the wall, bending it forward so he can pop open the panel to access the droid's brain. Thinking aloud, his long untouched mother tongue slips out in a puff of air.

"Quizás... si... yes, that might work."

If Cassian wipes the droid's short term memory, he might have a chance.

* * *

"Initialization complete."

Cassian pulls his hand away from the droid's chassis to massage his stiff neck. The droid's photoreceptors ebb slowly into existence, adjusting to the practically nonexistent lighting. Once Cassian's worked the soreness out of his tight muscles he grabs the spanner he found and perches himself back on the nearest storage crate.

"Awaiting command."

The droid has yet to declare him a threat. The memory wipe is a success - for now.

"I don't have a command for you." Cassian swipes the hair out of his eyes with the back of his hand, only then realizing that they're covered in grease. He wipes them on the front of his pants, then peers at the droid curiously.

"Statistically unlikely," the droid says in a tone Cassian can't quite describe. "I am awake." When Cassian doesn't respond, the droid adds: "I am only activated to complete a task."

Cassian hums, wiping grease off the spanner. "I see. What was your last task?"

The droid's photoreceptors dim and it's processors begin to whir quietly. "Nothing. Databank retrieval is empty. However, this is not my first initialization." Its head rotates toward Cassian, feeding its brain a new stream of data.

It regards the brown eyes peering through a mess of unruly dark hair, sees their sharp gaze, unsuited for such a soft face, such a thin frame. The droid sees all of this, but does not understand. It says: "My sensors indicate you are not meeting Imperial standards for grooming." There's a clunk of gears rotating as the droid turns its head further. "This is not an Empire sanctioned maintenance facility. In fact, it is in severe disrepair."

"I assume you were the one protecting it," Cassian says, trying not to smile. "What happened?"

"As I said," the droid snaps with the haughtiness of most droids programmed without interaction protocols, "my databank retrieval is empty. My function is below optimal. I cannot access sensory input from my limbs." Its eyes glow brighter. "And you are _not_ authorized to service me."

"Well," Cassian replies, setting the spanner aside, "it's too late to change that. Tell me what you know."

"Accessing default settings." For a few moments, all Cassian can hear is the pattering of rain against the roof. If asking the droid this question puts it back into high-alert mode, he'll have to abandon this project completely. Oddly, he doesn't want to.

 "My function is to ensure the security of Imperial p-person-nnel and pr-property. I eliminate threats to security by wh-whatever means necessary."

"Yes." Cassian frowns at the droid's stutter. Perhaps the vocabulator is still having problems. He can only find out if the droid keeps talking. "Am I a threat to you?"

 A droid's sense of self is delineated by the hardware inside its chassis and the programs running in its software. Droids were created for one purpose only - to enact their programming. To obey orders. Without question. So first, the droid calculates the risk of this Human being a threat.

Risk is merely probability times impact. The risk of this boy genuinely threatening the Empire's very foundations is low enough it rounds to zero. But the not-regulation boy has breached the secure perimeter the droid was programmed to protect.

"You are a threat," the droid remarks. "You are a threat, and a threat must be terminated." Cassian's about to reach for the kill switch when the droid continues: "However, I currently do not have the physical capacity to enact my programming. I cannot contact Imperial command without a transponder or communication device of some kind. Do you have one?"

Cassian shakes his head, both at the question and at his own amusement with what in any other case would be a dangerous situation.

"May I have a hand so I can kill you?"

Cassian scratches at the back of his neck, gaze flickering over to the pile of limbs he'd stacked on a crate out of the droid's sight. "Ah, um, no."

The droid's fans whir, a short burst of air that sounds eerily like a sigh. Was it trying to imitate Cassian or was it a malfunctioning cooling system? This droid grew odder and odder by the minute. Cassian's sure he hadn't given the droid a personality chip, much less a sense of self. It must have been malfunctioning long before it left the factory.

 "The probability of you complying with my request was indeed very low. Yet since it was higher than zero and the costs of going through with the particular scenario were low, I made the attempt."

Cassian furrows his eyebrows. "You hoped it would work."

"Incorrect. To put it in organic terms, I did not think it would hurt to try."

Droid's don't try. They do, or they don't. Trying meant reprogramming or a trip to the scrap heap. Cassian is all the more intrigued and leans forward. "I understand," he replies, nodding slowly, "I do that all the time." Moving aggravates his wound. Wincing, Cassian ducks his head and presses a hand over his tied jacket. "Like now. Repairing you, I mean."

"You repaired me? You did a terrible job. I'm missing limbs."

"Don't you want to kill me?"

"You are a threat. A threat must be terminated. It would be illogical to do otherwise." The droid's voice sounds lighter, more fluid, if that was even possible.  That made no sense. He must be getting tired. Cassian shakes his head and focuses on the slowing trickle of rain through the roof.

"So you would agree it would be unwise for me to put your arms back on."

"My calculations predict a 99.99% chance of severe injury to you in that scenario. It is what I am programmed to do. My function." The droid halts, then refocuses its photoreceptors. "Yet I do not understand why you turned me on. The probability of this situation is so low it should not exist. But it does."

Cassian rests a hand on his cheek. "I was bored. Like you said, it wouldn't hurt to try." He hoped he could get the droid to function, and he had. He hadn't expected a conversation. Not like this.

"Try what?"

It was a good question. What had Cassian hoped to achieve from all this?  Cleaning the wheels of mouse droids and fixing an astromech's appendages while listening to their chirps in binary was one thing. Discussing the Rebellion with an Imperial killing machine was another. To the droid's benefit, however, security droids typically didn't have such a vast vocabulary.

"Try to make a friend." Karking hells, he's manipulating droids now. Cassian doesn't need a friend. He's perfectly fine on his own. He just needed something to whittle away the time before extraction, something to distract from his wound. If it worked, he'd have another tool in his arsenal against the Empire. A reprogrammed Imperial security droid. But to achieve that, he needed a datapad and several night's worth of sleep. Not a nighttime chat in an old warehouse.

"A friend? My dictionary must have been corrupted. Organic beings cannot be friends with droids. Companions in some situations. But not a friend. And a security droid cannot befriend a THREAT." The droid's voice is almost haughty as it makes the final statement. Cassian opens his mouth to say something more, but no words escape him. Was he trying to soothe a droid's hurt feelings? Or was he trying to convince himself of his own motivations?

The latter, Draven's told him, is a dangerous thing. And the last time Cassian checked, droids didn't have feelings. Their receptors and sensors could be overloaded, yes, but they did not _feel_ emotion. They did what they were told and felt nothing about the result. (Cassian's pretty sure he has the opposite problem.)

Loyalty and fear in droids, Cassian tells himself, are just the results of self preservation protocols.

"I just wanted... someone to spend my time with." There. That wasn't entirely a lie, but not entirely the truth either. Cassian could just admit he wanted to use the droid - whether he succeeded or failed, the droid wouldn't remember. But all of a sudden the idea rankled. With organic recruits, he always made sure they knew what they were getting into, even while offering tantalizing messages of hope and freedom. A droid couldn't feel, yes, but when Cassian has the choice to keep his morals, why would he give them up for something as paltry as what the galaxy believed to be true?

"That is usually the case. I am a droid who specializes in statistical analysis. I would say I am never wrong, but the word _never_ is statistically inaccurate. There is always a chance. What organics should be saying is _highly unlikely._ For example, a friendship between us, as defined by the Imperial Basic Dictionary, is highly unlikely."

"But not impossible."

Cassian holds the droid's unblinking gaze.

"You are correct. You are learning, Human." The droid whirrs. "I do not recall your name. I would ask you to give it to me, but considering that I must terminate you, I would suggest you don't do that."

"That would be wise." The steady thrum of rain in the background slows to a quieter drip. The storm's begun to move elsewhere. Once the rebel ship can make it through atmo, he'll be cleared for exfiltration. There's still quite a few hours until that point - enough time for his situation to take a turn for the worse. He can't afford to truly relax, but Cassian shifts in his seat, adjusting into a more comfortable position that's also closer to the droid.

"What's yours?" Cassian asks.

"My name? You mean my identification number?"

Cassian nods. "And your pronouns."

"I am Kaytuesso. Most address me as 'it'. I prefer 'him'."

"Well, Kaytuesso, it's nice to meet you," Casisan says, mostly out of habit. There's a part of him that means it, though, the part that knows the alternative to chatting with Kaytuesso is sitting in soaked silence, hoping he'll stay awake until his transponder chirps.

"You are the first organic to have ever said that to me."

"Considering our circumstances, I'm surprised I said it myself."

"That is understandable. I still need to terminate you and you do not look like you would like that."

"I don't." Cassian smiles, a haphazard mishmash of his lips. When was the last time he smiled as himself? "Do you actually want to terminate me?"

"I don't _want_ to. If you did not trespass here and take me apart, I would not have to _anything_ to you."

Cassian tilts his head. "What _do_ you want?"

"I want nothing. I am a droid. I exist to perform my function of ensuring the security of Imperial property and personnel. I have never been rewarded for my actions, even internally. The only feedback loop I receive is negative reinforcement from my organic superiors when I make a mistake."

Cassian huffs out a breath. "Interesting. I've met droids that want things that serve no purpose to their programming or well being." He's met quite a few off-the-wall astromechs on some escort and intel-gathering missions. It continually amazes him how pilots aren't driven insane by their antics. Probably because they're equally insane. He shakes his head. "I know a few who would be very eager to get their hands on a blaster."

"That doesn't make any sense. I would like to have a blaster, but only because it would increase the probability of successful termination of trespassers."

"Well then, I'm glad you don't have a blaster right now."

"Why not? It's not like I can use one. I don't have arms."

Kaytuesso falls silent, and if it wasn't for the light in his eyes, Cassian would think he had run out of charge. But then he says: "Terminating you will be quite the shame. You belong to the small percentage of organics that have not irritated me."

"You have a choice, you know."

"I do not. I am only talking to you to lower your guard. As soon as you put those arms back on me, I will immediately be compelled to crush your windpipe. There is a significant chance I will be able to do so with just one arm."

Cassian makes a disgruntled sound. "You really can't lie, can you?" He's beginning to rethink the undercover operations. Kaytuesso would be a terrible Intelligence agent. "And here I thought we were becoming friends," he adds, and the hurt in his voice isn't feigned.

"I am not programmed to lie."

"Not even for self preservation?"

"The security of Imperial property and personnel ranks far higher than my right to function."

"That seems unfair, don't you think?"

The next question startles Cassian. "Do you engage in activities to disrupt Imperial functions? That is, are you a self-identified rebel?"

 "What makes you think that?"

"Considering your apparent injury and appearance, the probability is not insignificant. I am asking only to inquire: you are risking your life for a cause you believe is worthy, are you not?"

He takes the bait. Even if Kaytuesso was recording the entire conversation, he could easily destroy any evidence. Even the rain could corrupt a datachip.

"I... am."

"Then what makes you different from me?"

"I made this choice. Willingly. I lost everything I had. I could've ran so I wouldn't lose my life. But I didn't. And it's cost me things I took for granted. But every morning I get up and I choose to fight. I choose to follow orders, even if sometimes I want to disagree with them, because I know in my heart that they're for the greater good." Cassian pauses. "You never had a choice, Kaytuesso. You were made and you were programmed to follow orders."

The droid remains uncharacteristically silent. Cassian picks up the spanner and starts to toy with it.

"What if you had a choice? What if you weren't programmed to follow _anybody's_ orders, or serve _any_ greater cause?"

"I cannot compute the various outcomes of that scenario, as it is restricted by the prioritization of Imperial tactical analysis in my programming. However, I can extrapolate relevant data to predict the end results of some possible scenarios where I am able to enact my own free will."

"And?"

Kaytuesso's photoreceptors dim to a point they're almost completely dark. Cassian waits. The rain's stopped but overflowing water still drips into the puddles on the floor. Cassian counts the increasing intervals between the drips until Kaytuesso responds.

"More than 98% of these scenarios in my deactivation or smelting by the very Empire I was created to serve. A very unpleasant demise. Very."

Kaytesso halts.

"There's more," Cassian murmurs, tapping the spanner against his knee.

"Yes... Despite the abysmal likelihood of my continued function, it seems... enacting my own free will, or at least executing programming as dictated by a base mandate that prioritizes my well being... informed by experiential data and supplemented by Net research.... all guided by my highly superior analytical capacity... such an existence would be... intellectually stimulating. What you organics may call _fun._ Every action I take, every one of my functions, would result in a positive feedback loop of reward. The possibilities are... intriguing."

 "In that scenario... would you still try to terminate me? Or detain me?"

"Even now, your death would not benefit me. I would merely be fulfilling my programming. In that scenario, if there was a monetary reward for your capture, as a droid, I could not claim it and I would risk capture by the Empire. Therefore, the likelihood me intentionally causing your death is very low. If you irritate me, however, the probability goes up."

"That's fair. I can live with those odds." Cassian slides off the crate and kneels beside Kaytuesso, an ingrained need to see the droid's face more clearly before he proposes his idea. As if droids were capable of microexpressions. His exhaustion was really getting to him. And yet... Cassian can still pick up on the shifts of the droid's machinery, can't he? "What if I wiped your Imperial base programming?"

Difficult would be an understatement. The hardest part of reprogramming Kay wasn't sourcing replacement parts, not for sticky fingers and keen eyes; nor was it finding space and permission, because Cassian knows he can convince Draven. It wasn't even time, because he could go weeks without sleeping. The hardest part are the layers and layers of failsafes preventing the exact sort of tampering he was going to do.

Kaytuesso is quick to note the flaw. "Imperial deference is embedded into every one of my functions."

"Yes, but if you're stripped of the overriding base program you can make the choice _not_ to run Imperial functions. You can still access them, if the need arises, but you will not be obligated to put the Empire first. You'll still have Imperial programming, but you can choose not to run it. I will only be disabling the protocols you can't, the ones that have to be done manually, from the outside."

"I see. The probability of failure is-"

"Very high, yes, I know. It'll be invasive," Cassian twists his mouth. When he cleans the mouse droids on base, he always asks first. So to attempt a potentially debilitating procedure on Kaytuesso... he has to ask. "And there's a possibility you might lose the capacity to function."

"It's more than a mere _possibility."_

"I know. I can take that risk. But only if you want me to - if _you_ want to take that risk." And there it is. The slim possibility, an tiny offering of hope. Or in Kaytuesso's case, the tiniest of probabilities. Low enough it rounds to zero, with a price so high it  _would_ hurt to try.

"You're offering me freedom instead of just shutting me down or putting a blasterbolt through my chassis. Yes, I've noticed your blaster, you aren't very good at hiding it."

Cassian resists the temptation to touch his holster. His blaster's dead, anyways. "That's because I don't need to right now."

"Still, what if someone steals it?"

"Are you planning on stealing it?"

"If you gave me limbs, maybe."

"Even after I reprogram you?"

Kaytuesso sighs. "Likely so. To protect myself, or protect you, if I am inclined to do so."

Cassian almost drops the spanner into a puddle. When was the last time he had someone to watch his back?

"You... you would want to protect me?"

Oh, people had died protecting him, just not for his sake. They died to protect the information he carried. For the value of his skills. Not him. Even his parents had died for the cause. To ensure a better future for him, sure, but they'd still died. Cassian doesn't want anyone else to die for him - to leave him alone with more ghosts, just like everyone else. But he knows more will.

"It's only logical. If you disable or override my Imperial deference programming, you give me a free will. Have you heard of Wookie life debts as an expression of gratitude to those who save them?"

Kaytuesso doesn't know about his skills or all the information he knows. He had a sense of gratitude for Cassian for something he hasn't even achieved yet. Cassian doesn't know what to make of it. And already he's thinking about the sacrifices Kaytuesso might make out of that gratitude.

He hasn't even touched the droid's code.

"You - I - I can't have that sort of power over someone else. A life debt - no le hagas! Seriously? To me?"

"Well, I am not a Wookie, so it is not a life debt. But droids without deference programming can still choose to prioritize the well being of others, at the risk of their own function. As I said earlier, Humans do have droid companions. You did say you wanted one such 'friend'. I can replay the recording if you have forgotten."

A friend. Cassian had wanted a tool for the Rebellion but, as always his soothing half-truths were, well, half-true.

"Yeah," he says softly, "I would."

"And so would I," the droid announces, "I predict your companionship will be insufferable yet educational in the ways of organics."

"Thanks."

"That was not a compliment."

"I know."

A moment of silence passes, untouched by the sound of rain. It's broken by the chirp of his transponder. 

"You're going to leave," Kaytuesso says. Almost hurt.

"They're coming here - and I'm taking you with me. I'm going to deprogram you. Ojalá. I hope."

"Does hoping increase the probability of a favourable result?"

Cassian grins. "Well, if this works, I'll tell you all about the times where hope got me out of a sticky situation. You can analyze that data and tell me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entire fic is based on this post I made:  
> https://cassandor.tumblr.com/post/180156426235/i-cant-decide-if-fourteen-year-old-cassian-leaps


End file.
